


Free

by socks_and_sandals



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M, Spoilers, first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:47:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5096270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socks_and_sandals/pseuds/socks_and_sandals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's death, Peter's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was doing a White Collar marathon, and I was writing down moments that could be really well implied in a fic. Then I realized that I don't need to make this into a fic, I can just write ficlets! Silly me. Anyways, yeah, here it is.  
> Also, I'm not a very good writer, you might see that I try too hard and not yet succeed. Maybe I just need to practice more. Anyways, love you all.

Season 6, Episode 6

Neal’s Death

Luftshansia - Small Price

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VkGPLoEnjQk

 

_Bang!_

The sound of a gunshot, distant but sharp, rings through the air. Peter halts for a moment, panic welling up in his chest, and continues running, more vigorously. He turns a couple of corners, not daring to stop and catch a breath, until he sees Keller.

Peter’s mind goes wild, _what has he done, where’s Neal, I can’t let him harm another person in my life._ Keller smirks at Peter and starts running. “Keller!” he barks, pulls out his gun, and 

 and says something, but he can’t process Keller’s words because of his heart pounding against his temple. He only realizes what Keller is doing when the girl screams, gun pointed to her head. Peter steadies his hands, barrel pointed at Keller’s head. 

The girl screams again. “Do as I say, Burke, and she lives,” says Keller, almost tauntingly.

“No one is going to die today,” Peter shouts.

“Yeah, no one except maybe Caffrey,”

Peter’s heart drops, throat going dry. His gun suddenly feels heavier in his hands. 

“What did you do?” he grits out, trying to suppress his urge to shoot Keller’s face off, hostage or not.

“It’s a sad day, Burke,” says Keller, almost looking sympathetic, “bet if you go now you’ll be able to say goodbye.”

Peter’s nostrils flare in anger, looking at Keller with all the hate he can muster up.

“Do the right thing,” calls Keller, “don’t do this.” 

He must have thought Peter didn’t have it in him, because he slowly removes his gun from the girl’s head. As soon as the hostage is free, Peter shoots a bullet straight through Keller’s skull. He sees some officers come running, so he gives them a look and bolts towards Neal. 

When he gets close, there is a big crowd of people, gathered around. He pushes through them roughly, muttering “Move,” his badge in his outstretched hand.

Then he sees Neal. On a stretcher. His shirt is soaked with blood. His face is so beautiful but too pale. There is a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Dread seeps through Peter’s body, his heart still thumping from the run.

“Neal,” he says softly, clutching onto the edge of the stretcher helplessly. “Neal,” he says again, his brain seeming to only process that one word, over and over again.

With a small groan that makes Peter wince, Neal opens his eyes and lifts his head up. The paramedic pushes him back down. “Peter,” he says back, reaching for his hand. 

Peter clasps it tightly, desperately. “Neal, I’m so sorry. I should have been there. I’m so sorry.” His voice is shaky. He doesn’t feel the tears coming, it must be the panic. Or the denial. Either way, he’s scared to touch Neal anywhere other than his hand. Peter lets go of Neal’s hand only when Neal tugs on it, only to feel it back on his cheek, just lightly resting there.

“Peter,” Neal starts, winces, and continues, “You’re the only one who saw good in me.”

“Stop it.”

_“You’re my best friend.”_

His words pierces into Peter’s heart, so much meaning in the four words. Before he can respond, the paramedic pushes him out of the way and slams the door of the ambulance, leaving him staring at his own reflection in the dark window of it. 

The ambulance leaves, its sirens blaring loudly. The people around him disperse, muttering quietly to each other and glancing at him. He stays oblivious to this, Neal’s last words to him repeating in his head.

After a while, he realizes he had been standing in the middle of the street for way too long and hazily gets a cab to the hospital. Upon arrival, he meets Mozzie, to no surprise. For once, Mozzie doesn’t greet him with the usual hostile glare and curt “Suit.” He only looks up with a flinch when Peter gently places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Oh, you’re here?” His voice is dry and slightly cracked, and Peter nods, not sure of what to say. Instead, he squeezes Mozzie’s shoulder. He and Mozzie stand awkwardly apart from each other and wait, wait for anyone to tell them anything, even though he knows what is happening. After seconds, minutes, hours, they all feel the same to him in his haze, a doctor in a white gown walks down the hall towards them nervously. The doctor doesn’t seem to be able to look at them in the eye when he asks them “Would you like to see him?” 

To that, Peter nods, for him and Mozzie both.

The doctor leads them down a couple of hallways just like the one they were just waiting in, into an elevator, and finally into a room. The first thing he notices through his numb body is how cold the room is. He shivers slightly, earning him a quick glance from the doctor. 

The room is filled with tables, long, metal tables. Most of the tables are filled with black bags. Peter’s experience as an FBI agent has taught him that the bags are body bags, and he thickly wonders which one might be Neal. The doctor shuffles towards a particular table and starts to unzip the bag. 

The process is eerily quiet and slow.

When the doctor steps aside, he can see Neal’s face. His lips are white, face is pale, eyes are closed. Peter tears his eyes away from his face and moves down to his chest, sucking in a sharp breath when he sees the hole in Neal’s chest. He hears Mozzie distantly mutter “No, no. This isn’t him. This isn’t Neal.”

Peter lifts his hand and starts stroking Neal, fingers combing through his hair. He traces his thumb over his eyelids, over his cupid’s bow, over his white, cold lips. He looks so peaceful, almost like he’s sleeping, but Peter knows better. He presses a kiss to Neal’s forehead, almost expecting Neal to spring up to his touch. But Neal doesn’t. Because he’s dead.

It suddenly hits him, like a blow to his face, but much worse, that _Neal is gone_. Mozzie is still going on about JFK, getting more hysterical by the moment. Peter turns around suddenly, facing the wall, fists balled up. His insides ache, if that makes sense. He wants to throw up, but also curl up and die. This throat feels like it’s swelling up, and he starts breathing in sharp breaths. He wants _Neal_ , but he can’t have him back, he knows. 

He suddenly yells, “Stop it, Mozzie, just stop it!” Mozzie flinches. “He’s gone.”

“No, no. But that’s Neal. He can’t be gone, because he’s Neal!” Mozzie’s voice breaks at points.

“But he’s right there,” says Peter, softer this time. “You’ve got to look at him, Mozzie. He’s dead.”

Mozzie makes a horrible choking sound and screams. “He always had a plan! No matter how tight the scrape was, he _always got away!_ ”

Peter turns around and sees Mozzie clutching at Neal, one hand his torso, one hand on his chest. He puts a hand on Mozzie’s back, meant to be reassuring. Mozzie’s tears fall down on Neal’s body, rolling down the side of his chest.

Peter leaves Mozzie to sit with Neal for a while and meets the nurse to collect Neal’s belongings. He manages to keep a tight upper lip as he collects them. They should probably go to evidence but he can’t do it now. The nurse hands Peter Neal’s things, one by one. The last thing the nurse hands him is Neal’s tracking anklet. 

He grips it in his palm, the paper bag with Neal’s other things in his other hand. The tracker seems heavier than it normally feels. He thinks over the past few days, especially when Neal told him his freedom was worth dying for. He looks down at the anklet, tears spilling out. 

“You’re free,” he says to the anklet, “You’re finally free, Neal.”

With that, he finds a bench next to him. He slumps down on it, sobs breaking out from his chest. They shake his entire body, ripping out a strangled sound from his throat. 

Neal’s memories replay in his mind, first catching him, his innocent face smiling; hiding the fear underneath, catching him again, hopeless with nothing but an empty bottle of wine, their first case together, meeting Mozzie, late night visits, drinking wine together, trying to figure out what he’s up to next. Kate’s plane exploding, the painful smile returning, the submarine, many near-death situations, being almost too late when Vincent Adler tried to kill him, being so mad at Neal, omitting, deceiving, Sam. The crash, Neal visiting him in prison, the secrets and lies. Neal first saying he wanted his freedom, a lot of yelling and shouting, a lot of ‘I’m trying to protect you’s. Cracking that safe together, being so proud of him when they arrested the Panthers. And finally, the bang, Keller, Neal. _You’re my best friend._

Peter’s sobs are getting thicker and chokier, his face buried in his hands. He thinks of Neal, his smile, his arrogant ‘I’m smarter than you’s, his eyes, his ridiculous hats that weren’t even from this century, his hands, the way he walked, the way he always put his feet on his desk.

He doesn’t even know he’s cried himself to sleep, tracking anklet still clutched tightly in his hand, until a sad, quiet Mozzie wakes him up. 

“Let’s go home, Suit,” he says, stepping back to give Peter some room. 

He opens his mouth and tries to speak but is surprised to find his voice completely gone, hoarse whispers taking their place. He closes it back instead. He motions to Mozzie and they find their way to the parking lot.

_“Where to?”_ Peter whispers, or tries to whisper, and Mozzie responds with “Anywhere but Neal’s place.” Peter drives himself and Mozzie to his own house, the door opening by a waiting Elizabeth. Elizabeth gathers them both in a hug, offering tea for Mozzie, coffee for Peter. Peter gives her a smile, or whatever he does with his mouth, and tells her he’s going to get some sleep. She gives Peter a sympathetic look and goes over to the couch to wrap and arm around Mozzie.

Peter makes it upstairs and to their room but for some reason he can’t stay there right now. Instead, he climbs in the bathtub, fully clothed, and pulls out his cell phone. He sees his latest text with Neal, talking about the case. He starts to feel the tears well up in his eyes as he dials Neal’s number, knowing it by heart. He presses the call button an brings the phone to his ears. It goes straight to his voicemail, _“Hi, you've reached Neal Caffrey. I'm sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message I'll make sure to get back to you. Yes, Peter, even you.”_

He barks out a laugh at the familiar voice, quickly turning into silent tears. He lets them flow, until he heavily lifts his body up from the tub and climbs out.

It hurts. It hurts so much that Neal, his C.I., his friend, his partner, brother, lover taken away from him. It hurts that he has to walk into the office and not see his face anymore, smiling at him. It hurts that he doesn’t need to check if his wallet is there or not every five minutes when Neal is around. It hurts, and he doesn’t know how anything will ever be the same. He misses Neal. His spot in Peter’s chest was too big, and now there’s just a hole where Neal used to fill. He would do anything to change the last 24 hours, but he knows he can’t.

 


End file.
